


Opiate of the Oppressed

by madame_faust



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Durin Family, Gen, Gossip, Kink Meme, Thorin and Dwalin are scary babysitters, bb!dorf addiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-11
Updated: 2013-03-11
Packaged: 2017-12-04 23:17:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/716200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madame_faust/pseuds/madame_faust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fill for a prompt on the kink meme: "Someone's being catty about Dís and her babies, and someone close to the family (Thorin? Dwalin? Dís herself) needs to tell them off for it."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Opiate of the Oppressed

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing and am making no profit from this story. Read the original prompt and fill here: http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/5821.html?thread=12596669#t12596669
> 
> I'm just going to throw in a **warning** for violent imagery. Dwalin gets VERY testy when you insult his loved ones. Also, **tigress** threw out the idea that 'Dís' is the short form of 'Sigdís' in the fic _The Way of Rivers to the Sea_ (read it here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/704010) which I am ROLLING with. Also, also, "Muhûdel Mahal" means "Blessings of Mahal" and "Khagolabbad Fahamu" means "Northern Blue Mountains" from (guess!) the Dwarrow Scholar's English-Khuzdul Dictionary. Haven't checked it out yet? You should!

 

_"Gossip is the opiate of the oppressed."  
-Erica Jong  
_

Woman of Man, they called her. Not loudly. And not to her face - no, they would never be so foolish as to say such a thing to her _face_ that she might give them bodily answer - but they said it all the same. The whispers followed her in the market, were muttered around the smithy when she was there, two little dwarflings in tow, to do what extra work she could.

  
Sometimes they did speak to her, and it was none the easier to bear for being bolder. The dragon-tongued busybodies would try to make their judgments sound innocuous or even neighborly. “Both of ‘em still on the breast?” an older woman would tut when she had Kíli in her arms and Fíli trying to tug the other side of her tunic down.  
  
“He’s nearly off,” she’d mutter early on, but Dís quickly learned that they weren’t asking because they actually cared about her response; they just came to gawk.  
  
It wasn’t just dwarrowdams either, for their menfolk were just as curious and nosy as their wives, sisters and mothers. When Dís made change for them or delivered orders to their homes, Fíli strapped securely to her back, fingers forever tangling in her hair and pulling her plaits out while Kíli slept or cried or drooled down her front, the dwarves who gave her payment would chuckle and say, “You certainly didn’t waste no time. Business must be good.”  
  
They knew business was not _that_ good. Made some folks feel proud, to see another’s struggles. They could reflect on how rotten her situation was and it made their lives look all the better by comparison. It made Dís want to pluck out their beards and spit in their faces, but she kept her head and took their money; because she _did_ have those two boys to provide for and she’d be damned if her pride was going to starve the lot of them into an early grave.  
  
Children were a blessing. Yearned for, prayed for and fussed over. And there were plenty who stopped her on the streets to coo over the boys crying out, “Muhûdel Mahal!” Those Dís could smile at, she’d tell them their ages, their names, let them pet Fíli’s golden curls and stroke the downy scruff on Kíli’s chubby cheeks. No matter who it was who commented on them for good or ill, Dís would always be proud to be their mother.  
  
She would never be proud of biting her tongue, cursing malintentioned strangers silently and glowering at clumps of gossips in the market. But it was all for their sakes, so she would bear it.  
  
Better her than Thorin, Dís reflected to herself wryly after deflecting a comment of, “And _how_ old is young Fíli? Nearly six? Oh, what a relief, I was worried the lad was _small_ for his age!” Her brother loved those lads like they were his own and would have the head of anyone who spoke a word about them that even smelled like a criticism.  
  
Dís was almost entirely positive that she would have lost her mind, love them though she did, if it wasn’t for Thorin. Even before her husband’s death, he was always willing to lend a hand, to rock a fussy Fíli to sleep at night or sit on the floor and play with him. When Dís half-heartedly protested that he did not have to (Víli was too happy to have an uninterrupted night’s sleep to complain), Thorin favored his sister with a smile and informed her that he intended to take a firm hand in his nephew and heir’s upbringing and education. Then he took up a carved pony, made an absurd (though not inaccurate) whinneying sound and Fíli laughed and laughed.  
  
Tilting his head at his sister, Thorin deadpanned, “You see? Horsemanship.” And Dís laughed as hard as her son did.  
  
Kíli’s birth came scant months after her husband’s passing. One more mouth to feed on one less income. And that was when those whispers started in earnest. The winter was hard on everyone in the Blue Mountains and it was easier to find fault in others than face one’s own helplessness.

Staying home because there was not enough work to be had resulted in the following jabs, “Got her brother and cousin working to provide for her while she lazes about the house with the wee ones.”  
  
“Shameful.”  
  
“Who does she think she is?”  
  
“Well, a princess, naturally.”  
  
“Ha. Princess of _what_ , may I ask?”  
  
When spring came and orders picked up Dís was back at the forge every moment she could spare - which wasn’t easy with an infant and toddler who needed near-constant monitoring. One big order for swords nearly made them weep with relief; folks in the Khagolabbad Fahamu had a vicious battle with some Goblins in their mines and needed new-forged weapons as fast as possible. They knew the skill of Erebor-born smiths and were willing to pay handsomely for their labors.  
  
Dís had better eyes than either Dwalin or her brother, being younger by decades and she offered to do the close work, setting jewels and carving runes upon the blades. In return for hours of uninterrupted work, they both agreed to watch the lads, so they’d be out of her hair and she could concentrate. Fíli was big enough that he could ride on his uncle’s shoulders, as long as Thorin was mindful to keep a hold of his legs so he didn’t topple off. Kíli needed to be carried, so Dwalin adjusted the sling Dís usually held him in to fit his larger chest and fixed the infant snugly against him. Immediately, Kíli took hold of one of the ties of Dwalin’s tunic and brought it into his mouth, sucking on his fist contentedly.  
  
“Good eyes, that one,” Dwalin remarked approvingly after Dís waved them down the road and took up her chisel. “He'll make a fine archer.”  
  
“Aye,” Thorin agreed, as Fíli’s hands rooted themselves firmly in his hair to steady himself. “Just as soon as he’s bigger than a bow.”  
  
“I’ll see if I can’t find him a wee one about,” the warrior dismissed the concern. “If not, I’m sure Bifur’ll craft one for him special.” Noting the death-grip Fíli had on his friend and king’s head, Dwalin chuckled, “And he’ll be swinging a hammer ‘fore too long.”  
  
“Won’t drop it, that’s for sure,” Thorin agreed, manfully attempting to ignore the pain in his scalp. They had provisions to pick up at market and they lingered over the stalls, Thorin eyeing a bolt of midnight blue fabric. Dís’s tunics (when she bothered to wear her own and didn’t go thieving _his_ ) were looking a bit shabby at the elbows. Once they were paid, she should have a new one - he never bought on credit, when he could help it - but it might be sold out by then. Reaching up he settled Fíli against his chest, holding him with one arm as he fingered the fabric, checking the weave, for the clothes his sister wore ought to be sturdy as well as fine. Might get enough so there’d be leftovers to outfit the lads.  
  
Thorin was shadowed by the awning of the stall and his head was bowed as he examined the cloth, so he was nearly unnoticed by the two gossiping dwarrowdams who ran the shop. They were Erebor-born and respectable enough, but not so above reproach that they could get away with running their mouths about the Lady Sigdís in the hearing of her brother. So eager were they to share this latest juicy tidbit that they did not check their surroundings closely enough to know they would not be overheard.

“Did you see the king _and_ their cousin?” the younger asked the elder.  
  
“Of course I did! Where’s she, I wonder?”  
  
“Probably putting her feet up, braiding her beard - what’s left of it.”  
  
The elder laughed scornfully, “Oh, aye, makes a big show of grief when her husband dies, but leaves the minding of his children to others. Pop ‘em out one right after the other, that woman of Man does and no care for who’ll be feeding ‘em or minding ‘em. It’s a wonder the brother doesn’t throw her out on her shiftless arse.”  
  
There was no greater insult to a living Dwarf than calling him lazy. Call them greedy, violent, cowardly, you might get a black eye for your troubles, but accusing one of Mahal’s race of craftsmen of sloth was a slight worthy of bloodshed. Thorin’s vision ran red and if he hadn’t had a child in his arms, he might have brought the thrice-damned stall upon the empty, _wicked_ heads of the dwarrow women, but at that moment Dwalin’s tall broad form threw a shadow over them.  
  
“By rights I should rip the tongues from your mouths,” he growled at them, low and vicious. “Or sew your lips together to spare the world your vileness. You...” Words seemed to fail him, but he continued on regardless. “You’re unworthy of scraping the dirt from her boots. She’s a diamond. Hardest working, strongest, wisest dwarrowdam who ever lived and you owe her your respect and fealty. If I _ever_ hear a _rumor_ of unkindness about my Lady spoken by you or any of your kin or kith, I’ll have your lying, slandering throats torn out and your bodies left for carrion.”  
  
It was a credit to the willpower of their womenfolk that they did not faint dead away at the warrior’s feet after such a threat. Silently, they nodded their agreement, too stupefied to speak a word. It was only when Thorin emerged from the shadows, his face grim and deadly serious  that the younger of the two found her legs would no longer hold her and sank onto a stool, eyes wide and beard trembling on her chin.  
  
In his uncle’s arms, Fíli yawned and leaned against Thorin’s shoulder, pale eyelashes fluttering against his cheek. “Looks like someone’s ready for his cot,” Dwalin observed to Thorin, his voice taking on a fond tone that was so far removed from the murderous rumble of a moment prior that he might have been a different dwarf.  
  
Thorin grunted in agreement, hefting Fíli up higher on his shoulder. Without a word of a backward glance at the two cloth merchants, they turned away from the market and headed back to the house. “Reckon we ought to buy our cloth from Irpa,” he said as they walked away.  
  
“Aye,” Dwalin nodded, one arm protectively cradling Kíli in his sling. “She’s a good, honest sort. Makes a quality product.”  
  
“Quality, aye.”  
  
Neither of them spoke a word about their encounter in the market to Dís who joined them at home for lunch, proudly displaying the blades she’d finished while they were out once she’d sneaked into her room to kiss her boys as they napped. When she asked if they had an easy time of it with the boys, both Thorin and Dwalin said they were good as gold, if not better and they were happy to take them to market any time she asked. If Dís noticed that the superior looks and vicious whispers that started up when she walked through town with them abruptly ceased after Dwalin and Thorin’s little outing, she put it down to the springtime lifting folks’ spirits and making them less likely to lash out at others over private hurts.  
  
There might well have been a kernel of truth in that, but one day, decked out in a new midnight-blue tunic with gold trim specially purchased by Thorin as a gift, she was slightly surprised when two of the nastier cloth merchants actually _bowed_ to her.  
  
The action was strange enough and she made up her mind to ask her kinfolk about it when she got home, but when she returned, she found all four of her lads fast asleep in front of the hearth, Kíli and Fíli lulled into slumber by the gentle rising and falling of Dwalin and Thorin’s chests. The image of it was so lovely, she quite forgot anything was amiss in the world at all.


End file.
